


Turtle Marathon

by orphan_account



Series: Quotable: The Short Stories [1]
Category: N/A - Fandom
Genre: Short Story, nechren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 10:12:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8529067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A short story about a boy who only wants to go faster.





	

“It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.”  
-Confucius

Speed was the dream. A childhood of race cars and track instilled in me the belief that fast was the only way, the best way. I was always trying to top my fastest time, to push the limits of speed. It didn’t matter in what: running, biking, and go-karts. Go-karts were my life for years. I built my own at ten, and for five years I upgraded and practiced, shaving every millisecond I could from my personal best. 

And then the accident happened. I had been practicing drifting the day before, and hadn’t changed the tires after I got back. At 45 miles per hour, my tires lost traction and sent me careening into a tree, knocking me unconscious and breaking my leg. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the engine caught fire. The owner of a nearby shop quickly pulled me from the wreckage, but by then my leg was a burnt, twisted wreck, much like my beloved go-kart. 

The doctors tried to put me in a wheelchair, but I refused. If I could hardly stay sitting for an hour at school, how could they expect me to stay sitting for the rest of my life? Instead, I chose to struggle for months before I could walk again, and even then was with at least one crutch. I had to hobble along, outpaced by almost all. My dreams of speed were over, my parents told me. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t drive easily. I couldn’t bike. My life became a series of “You can’t…” and “Sorry, but…” It infuriated me.

I lived in Virginia, just outside of Arlington, and every year the Marine Corps Marathon was held, 24.2 prestigious miles that I could not run. Every year, I went out to watch the start, and waited at the finish for the runners. Every year, I imagined myself among those at the front, crossing that finish line at top speed. Every year, I was told I couldn’t by my family.

My third MCM, when I was 18, was different. While I was out talking to the runners, whom I had become close friends with over the years, I was told to put on a number, and do the race. They had each contributed to buy me a spot, and run I did. The race began at 7:55 am, and I crossed the finish line at 3:15 pm—5 minutes after the race ended. For my efforts, I got a medal and recognition. 

That evening I went home, locked myself in my room, and cried. I hadn’t gotten a medal and recognition; I had gotten their pity. They say a young man who tried his best, and they accepted it as good enough. Good enough wasn’t ok for me before the accident, and it wasn’t ok for me then. 

With my goal in mind, I trained. Every day, I ran 10 miles on my crutches. My times got faster and faster, and I got stronger and stronger, until I could run without my crutches. I still wasn’t fast, because of my extreme limp, but I was going.

The next year, I signed up for the MCM myself. The starting pistol fired, and I took off. My pace was twelve minutes per mile, and I finished in time. I did not get a medal, participation or otherwise. I was not fast, but I was unrelenting. 

I did not rest. I did not slow. I did not stop

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback is welcome, but must be constructive. Thanks!


End file.
